


This Gold Thread

by Verasteine



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space, Angst, M/M, Separation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-05
Updated: 2010-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-13 12:56:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verasteine/pseuds/Verasteine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Space AU. She had studied the Legend of John more than any other. Now one of the protagonists of that story is standing in front of her in the flesh.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Gold Thread

**Author's Note:**

> Just when I thought I couldn't participate in [](http://community.livejournal.com/consci_fan_mo/profile)[**consci_fan_mo**](http://community.livejournal.com/consci_fan_mo/) this year because my new fandom didn't qualify, my brain thought outside of the box. This is the result. My thanks to [](http://mad-jaks.livejournal.com/profile)[**mad_jaks**](http://mad-jaks.livejournal.com/), for hosting the challenge, to [](http://misswinterhill.livejournal.com/profile)[**misswinterhill**](http://misswinterhill.livejournal.com/) for the beta, to [](http://kilawater.livejournal.com/profile)[**kilawater**](http://kilawater.livejournal.com/) for the feedback and handholding, and lastly, I owe a debt of gratitude to [](http://irisbleufic.livejournal.com/profile)[**irisbleufic**](http://irisbleufic.livejournal.com/), not only for her support for this story, but especially for graciously letting me borrow her beautiful words to provide it with its title, which is hers.

_A man whose hair is as dark as a raven's,  
whose eyes are as pale as the Earth's moonlight reflected on a lake,  
a man who is the only one in a room  
even if there are a dozen in there with him,  
such a man shall come for me._

\--

She knew him before he knew her, as he strode into the café with his coat swirling and his scarf tightly knotted.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," she said, swishing her tail off the second seat so as to make room for him. "I think I would know you anywhere."

He did not smile as he sat down, but kept his face blank. So many different variants of his story abounded -- the avenging angel of legend; the searching lover; the petitioner who did not wish to reveal his quest. It was hard to tell what was part of the original tale.

"Salia?" He said her name perfunctorily, the air of a man already aware of the answer.

She merely nodded in reply.

"They told me you know the origins of the story about John Watson."

There was a barely detectable urgency in his tone; she only recognised it because she'd once spent a summer on a cargo ship run by humans. She nodded again. "They call it the Legend of John," she said, and smiled. "There are several variations of it, and in some circles it's told more fancifully than in others."

"You've studied it."

"I have." Not from when it first surfaced, but later, when it proved so tenacious. "I'm a professor at Lentin University," she explained. "It's situated in the better districts of the city, where these tales are told, and not whispered for fear of their being true."

"Is it true?" Sherlock Holmes asked, his dark hair carelessly arranged around his head, not the crown of glory the whispered tales told of, the tales that had made their way up from the slave quarters to the salons of the reputable establishments Salia had her tea in.

"All tales have a basis in fact," she said, and watched the irritated sneer form on his face. "I can tell you the story," she offered.

He started to reply, but stopped when the waitress hovered at their table and clicked a question at them. He shook his head, automatically, not that, she guessed, he understood what was asked. She replied for them both, "Lakerian tea, for two."

The waitress flitted off, the rapid beating of her wings creating a draught over the table, fluttering the napkins and ruffling her tail-fur.

"Tell me the story," said her companion, the skin around his eyes taut with tension.

"The Legend of John," she began, as if she were addressing a lecture hall full of upper class students who had barely heard of so low-class a story, abuzz with starting up their notepads and settling into their seats, "was first recorded some two revolutions ago. It was not the first time the story was told, of course, but the first time someone registered it, because it was new."

The waitress arrived, setting down their tea and crackers before leaving again, off to another table. Salia poured out the tea while she continued her story.

"It was said that in the slave quarters, there was a doctor, and this doctor told a story. A story of how he was abducted, and of the man, the hero, who would rescue him."

Sherlock Holmes picked up his tea cup and gave it a distasteful sniff. He considered it a while before at last taking a careful sip, and then nodding to himself. Then he drank some more.

"That man, I think," said Salia, carefully, not wanting to let her excitement cloud her intellect, "is you."

"Yes," he replied, sounding like he meant, _obviously_.

Some said he was a cruel man, this hero of legend, a man who would wound without second thought; and some said he was a man destroyed by the obsession of love; and some said he was a kind hero, his actions misunderstood. Most, though, preferred to centre the narrative around the tragic fate of John.

"There is a second narrative surrounding the first," she explained, "and some scholars believe that that's why John is real, because the second story is about John himself, about the kindness and goodness that made strangers willing to bear his story, at a grave risk to themselves."

Her companion frowned. "Why?"

"The risk?"

He nodded curtly.

"It is said that the only power John has is to tell his tale, over and over again, in the hopes that it will become legend, and legend is how it will reach you." _And reach you it has, apparently, for you sit in front of me in the flesh, a tragedy come to life._ "But the man who has abducted John, he would never allow for John to even have the slimmest chance to be freed. If he were to discover John's tales are carried away, the persons doing the telling would face dire consequences."

Sherlock Holmes put down his teacup with a clipped gesture. "Well, did they?"

She smiled slightly in spite of his impatience. Not the kind hero, then. "It is not known. But the story was told, time and again, until it made its way up to the most private salons, the tragedy of tragedies, of a man wronged and a love divided for eternity."

"Not eternity," he said, looking up from his tea, his bright eyes glaring at her.

Did he want that to be true, or was he swearing it now? "The Legend of John is twofold, and the first goes like this." She sipped her own tea to lubricate her throat, and bit into a cracker before continuing. "John was once a happy man, who had a great friend, in service of whom he lived his life. This man was a great solver of puzzles, and he helped his fellow man by finding restitution when they were wronged. One day, he solved a puzzle, and gave someone back something that was stolen, and the thief took exception to having his prize possession taken away."

Her companion's mouth twisted into a sneer again, slowly, as if he were lost in memories and did not know his face was betraying him.

"This thief took revenge in the same way: he took away John, the most prized possession his nemesis had. He took John across galaxies, sold him into slavery, and John was traded across so many planets that even a great solver of puzzles would not be able to untangle the threads. And then, so far away and so alone, John came to realise the one thing their nemesis had already known."

" _Yes_ ," said Sherlock Holmes, as if it were an answer to a question she had posed.

"That they were in love." She held her breath for a moment, but he did not speak again. She took another sip of her tea and swished her tail to the other side of her chair before saying, "He began to tell his tale in the hopes that, although he was likely never to see his companion again, the man he loved would know, one day."

She could recite it by heart, this part of the tale, from her favourite written version. " _The man whose hair is as dark as a raven's / whose eyes are as pale as moonlight upon a lake / such a man shall come for me / such a man I will never see / again._ "

There were tears in her eyes when she'd finished. Her companion sat across from her, still like a statue, his face a paler mask than when he'd first come in. Slowly, his hand reached for the cup in front of him, and she saw the liquid in it tremble when he raised it to his lips.

"The Legend of John is considered a tragedy," she added gently, "because he believes his lover will always reach him too late. He believes you are too many steps behind him."

Sherlock Holmes raised his gaze to her, and said nothing. Salia did not know what to offer him in reply to his silent stare.

At last he asked, "What of the second part of the legend?"

She cleared her throat. "John is a kind, good man, who has tried to help his fellow slaves by applying his knowledge. He is a doctor, according to the legend, and he helps those who are in need. In gratitude for that, although he asks no thing for himself, they bear his tale as far as they can, in the hopes he can be reunited with his lost love."

She drank some more tea. "There are variations, and there are stories connected with the legend, about the good deeds John has done and the people he did them for, and there are versions which have attempted to finish it, where he is reunited with his lover, or those..." She trailed off, then forced herself to complete her sentence. "Those that leave him lost forever, where no one ever finds him again."

Sherlock Holmes pressed his lips together. "Those versions are untrue."

"I will disregard them from now on," Salia replied.

Her companion looked at her again, and this time spoke straightaway. "You do not know where he is?"

She shook her head. "No. But the legend originates from around Lentin, and it is believed that that is where John is, or was, for a long time. Or the legend wouldn't have had time to form."

He nodded, folding his hands together in front of his face and leaning his chin on them. "What else?"

"Some stories come from different sources." She saw his sharp gaze brighten. "Some come from the barges that ferry the slaves from the trader's market at QuinQ'ot. There are slaves employed on the barges, too, and I've spoken to at least two people who were told the tale by such a source."

"How recent?" he asked.

"Those tales are older, and less complete. I'd hesitate to say anything definite, but I'd say the slaves on the barges knew the Legend of John before it was told at Lentin. It is hard to tell, because the versions being told at Lentin now are too refined, and may not bear too much resemblance to the original story."

"How are the earlier versions different?"

"John is less of a hero, and more of a tragic figure. And his companion--" She paused. "-- you," she corrected, "appear as more of a man bent on vengeance. It is not so much a love story yet, not the way it's told now in the salons at Lentin."

For a moment, the man in front of her sat in silent contemplation. She studied him, this man of legend, the proof of truth she had been searching for so long; the dark, tousled hair that was the colour of Earth's ravens, the bright, piercing eyes that were as pale as described, his manner, curt, stern, solitary, a man who stood out in a room, yes, especially if he were the only man you had ever loved.

He spoke.

"I wish to start a legend," Sherlock Holmes said, his eyes on the waitress hovering over a table in the corner, his voice calm and prepared, "a legend to reach my lost lover. Tell me, Professor, how would I go about ensuring my tale reached him in turn?"

She had worked tirelessly on the Legend of John. It was only right she would shape the next chapter of its narrative. She smiled at her companion, swished her tail under her seat, and replied, "There is a way to guarantee a story is told; for the teller to feel the tale burning on their tongue, until they must share it. Such a way is this..."

*  


**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Podfic: This Gold Thread](https://archiveofourown.org/works/639495) by [AfroGeekGoddess](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AfroGeekGoddess/pseuds/AfroGeekGoddess)




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